My Cruel Love

My Cruel Love I'm buying you—for an entire month. Starting today, for the next thirty days, you'll be mine. Only mine. Your only job will be to please me. You won't even look at another man. Arman Shahriar's voice was low, smooth, and laced with danger—his breath brushing against Maya's ear. A chill ran down her spine. Earlier that evening. In a luxurious private lounge, a group of women stood in a line—each one stunning, dressed to seduce. Laughter echoed faintly in the background, but the tension in the room was palpable. In front of them sat a sharply dressed man, casually lounging on a single sofa. Arman Shahriar. Twenty-eight years old. Cold, charismatic, and devastatingly handsome. With a sculpted physique and dark, unreadable eyes, he was the kind of man women wanted and men feared. But Arman didn't care for emotions. He believed love was a myth—an unnecessary weakness. Power, wealth, fame, control. That's all that mattered. His business partner leaned in with a grin. "These are our club's best performers. For tonight's celebration, take your pick. Consider it a gift to mark the start of our partnership. Arman swirled the wine in his glass, unimpressed. He scanned the line of women, each one hoping—begging—to be chosen. Not one stirred even the faintest spark of interest. He scoffed. "They're all the same. Dull. Recycled. Got anything new? The rejection stung, though none dared protest. The partner chuckled awkwardly. "No worries. I've saved the best for last. The newest recruits—untouched and eager to impress. He snapped his fingers at a guard. "Bring the fresh ones. Five minutes. In another room, a small group of women were being prepped to meet the club's most powerful guest. The air was thick with hairspray and nervous excitement. One name changed the room's energy instantly: Arman Shahriar. Everyone looked thrilled—except for one woman in the corner. Maya froze. Her pulse quickened. She never thought she'd hear that name again—not here. A few minutes later, the new group entered the lounge. Arman sat up straighter as his eyes swept across them—then stopped. There she was. In a deep red gown, standing still and silent, her face unreadable. Maya Akhter. His ex-wife. No one in the room knew. Theirs had been a secret marriage—forced by family, short-lived, and left in silence. The partner beamed. "These girls just joined today. It's their lucky night, starting their career in the company of a man like you. Arman didn't respond. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Maya kept her gaze down, expression blank. But Arman rose, set down his glass, and walked toward her—ignoring every other woman. The room watched, stunned, as he stopped in front of her, took her wrist, and pulled her toward him. With his other hand, he gripped her waist. Maya stumbled slightly, clutching his shirt to steady herself, still refusing to meet his eyes. "I want this one," he said coldly. Gasps echoed behind him. His partner stammered, "Of course, of course! She's brand new. A rare find. Arman didn't respond. His stare remained locked on Maya—intense, unreadable. The girls were dismissed. The room cleared. Alone now, Arman's expression hardened. He tightened his grip. "So, when did you start selling yourself? His words were sharp, meant to cut. And they did. Maya flinched inwardly, but kept her voice steady. She had once loved this man—with everything she had. She'd married him with hope, only to be discarded like nothing. He'd never let her in, never gave her a chance. Just divorce papers and a wad of money she returned without a word. But now, she wouldn't let him see her broken. Her eyes finally met his. Calm. Cold. "I got tired of being poor. Dreams cost money. My husband left me, so I found a way to survive. Arman's jaw tightened. "You? Dreams?" he sneered. "So this is how you chase them? Selling your body to strangers? He leaned in, voice laced with disgust. "You never deserved to be my wife. Maya didn't flinch. Instead, she offered a slow, provocative smile. Her hand trailed around his neck. "Then let's strike a deal," she whispered. "You pay. I perform. No emotions. Just business. I've been waiting for a rich client like you. His eyes flared. "Client? How many? Maya shrugged. "Do you count your conquests, Mr. Shahriar? This is work. I don't keep souvenirs. Fury burned in his eyes. He grabbed her chin roughly. She winced but didn't break. "I thought you had dignity," he growled. "When you returned the money, I felt guilt—like maybe I ruined a good woman's life. But now I see the truth. You're exactly what I always feared. Maya smiled, eyes hollow. "Then I guess we're finally honest with each other. To be continued..